This Forgotten Life
by a.high.functioning.fangirl
Summary: Sherlock has returned, but something is different. Along with Molly, Watson strives to figure out what's going on as Sherlock attempts to discover the truth about a young man with an interesting secret.
1. Prologue

**_But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this._**

3:02 AM. Eddie McMullen had just come of his switch of the Thames River Watch when he decided to stop for a coffee in the bus station near his work. He slid the change into the coffee machine and placed the little paper cup under the spout, waiting for the warm liquid to fill it. As he waited, there was a slight noise from behind him. Eddie turned around. A young man in a long, black coat was sleeping on a bench behind him.

Eddie ignored the man and finished getting his coffee. It was now 3:09. His wife and kids would be getting up in a few hours to start their day. He begin to walk back out onto the street, and then stopped. He looked back at the man, and then took a step toward him.

He was tall and very thin. Painfully thin. He was clutching the collar of his black coat in both hands and his face was slightly turned out. There was something about his face that Eddie recognized. Switching the hot coffee from hand to hand so that his fingers didn't burn, he stared at the man. Was he a criminal? Maybe, Eddie thought, he should call the police. But no, he was just a homeless man in a bus station that bore some resemblance to a celebrity, or something like that.

More assured, Eddie stepped out through the doors into the dark night. The street was quiet and still. St. Bartholomew's hospital was darkened except for one window on a top floor. Eddie was about to turn and walk back to his apartment when a newspaper stand caught his eye. "One year after fake sleuth's death, mysteries still remain," Eddie read out loud in a whisper.

Fake sleuth. The coffee had spilled form Eddie's hand before he even put two and two together. For a moment he hesitated, a deer in the headlights, unsure whether to run or go back and check again. After a few moments of standing, petrified, in the middle of the sidewalk, and then the adventurous nature that he always stifled burst out in him, and he moved slowly back into the bus station.

He remembered the fuss from a year ago when the man had first died. There had been something about the man-Eddie couldn't quite remember his name-jumping off of St. Bart's roof because... Because he had been exposed as a fake. Eddie bent down back inside the bus station. The man's eyes were still closed. It occurred to Eddie that perhaps he should check and see whether the man was breathing. He watched the rise and fall of his chest for a moment, and then turned back to his face.

This could be the man. His cheekbones were shaper than in the pictures that had plastered the streets in a blanket of guilt. Eddie couldn't see his eyes, and even if he could have he didn't know what he'd be looking for. There was a red scarf hanging around the man's neck..

The man's lips moved slightly and Eddie jumped back. He looked at his watch again. It was 3:21. He should be getting home. He looked at the man again. On second look, maybe it wasn't the man. It had just been the dark of the station and the delusions of his tired brain.

The man's lips moved again and Eddie stayed a few metres away, watching silently. The man seemed to be stirring slightly. His fingers, long and thin, flexed a bit. He seemed to be trying to say something.

His face moved for a third time and this time Eddie could almost make out a mumbled word behind the exhaustion that shrouded his voice. Eddie begin to back away again. Detective or not, Eddie didn't want to be in the same place as a homeless man when he first woke up.

He had already turned around, when the man at last managed to speak.

"John," the man whispered in a low, husky voice.

At this point, Eddie McMullen abandoned all thoughts of adventure and simply turned and ran.


	2. Chapter 1

"**_It's a trick. Just a magic trick."_**

**_"No. All right, stop it now."_**

**_"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."_**

**_"All right."_**

**_"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_**

**_"Do what?"_**

**_"This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"_**

**_"Leave a note when?"_**

**_"Goodbye, John."_**

Sherlock Holmes woke up quite disoriented. His neck was cricked and one side of his face was half numb. He stood up slowly, rotating his neck, and brushed off his coat. The coffee machine was beeping slightly. There had been somebody here, and, judging by the coffee that had spilled over the machine and onto the floor, there had been somebody here within the last thirty minutes. Sherlock mentally cursed himself for allowing himself to fall asleep in such a public place. But how long had it been since he had last slept? Three full days.

He reached into his pocked to ensure that the letter was still there. His fingers brushed paper and he resisted the urge to pull it out and read it over again. _You must come back. You have allowed yourself to be thought of as a fugitive for long enough, and you have the evidence to prove yourself innocent. There is no reason for you to stay away any longer._

But Mycroft was wrong, Sherlock though as he recalled the contents of the letter by memory. He had a reason not to go back.

**"****_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."_**

It had been a year since he had seen John. A full year since he had stood on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's hospital and spoken to John. Yes, there was a reason to stay away. He had already hurt John enough and he didn't need to cause any more pain in the wake of his disruptive nature.

Sherlock had figure everything out about his comeback, _everything_, had been planed and planned over again. He knew how everybody would react and what he would say and do, but this was the only part that he hadn't figured out. He sat back on the bench and and pressed his fingers together beneath his chin. Then he stood up abruptly and rooted around in his pocket for a few moments and held it in front of his face. He caught his reflection in the screen for a few seconds and was startled at how gaunt he looked. When was the last time that he had eaten? Not yesterday. John would be angry. He had forgotten to eat during cases again, without John to reming him-or force him, as the case may be.

Almost without realizing it, he was typing in the number and writing a message.

Everything almost ready. -SH

A few seconds later a reply came. Waiting for the signal.

He put the phone back in his pocket and began to walk. A mental map o the city that he had not been out in for long spread in front of his eyes. As he walk past St. Bart;s, images flashed in front of his mind that he tried to push away. He didn't want to be distracted.

It was 3:38, according to his watch. A cab drive by that he almost called for on instinct, but he refrained from doing so. He couldn't do anything yet.

Thick mist rose off the dark river. Sherlock stopped for a moment and looked over the side. He closed his eyes for a second and the image of Moriarty flashed through his mind... Moriarty's grinning face as the gun went off, Moriarty lying in a pool of his own blood on top of the roof.

Without realizing it, he had sunk to his knees, his arms still on the railing above the river. The sidewalk was cold and damp.

A voice rang out from behind him. "'Scuse me, sir, 'scuse me, are you all roight?"

A small street child stood behind him. Sherlock turned around, trying to force a smile, and nodded. The little boy ran away into the foggy night, leaving only his dirty footprints behind him. Sherlock stood up again and pulled himself together. He didn't care. No, he wouldn't think about Moriarty. He was dead. Sherlock had watched as he had pulled the trigger and watched him die on top of that building.

He reached Baker Street at 4:17 in the morning. Drawing his coat around him, he pulled out his key and fit it in the lock. It turned. He had almost hoped that it wouldn't.

As he stepped through the doorway into 221 Baker Street, he was hit by such and overwhelming rush of... Something that he had to step back into the street and take a few deep breaths before he could step in. Again, he walked into the darkened hallway. He could hear Ms. Hudson's deep breathing form her room down the hall. He bypassed her door and begin up the stars. The fifth, sixth, and ninth stair creaked. He stopped once he was at the top and stared at the door.

The mailbox next to the door was full. Sherlock rifled through the mail. It hadn't been collected since Monday. Three days ago. He pulled away and looked at the door again. There was wet mud on he bottom of the door. It had been raining today, which it hadn't done in a week and half. Somebody had been trying to come into the apartment but John hadn't let him because the mail would have been collected if he had opened the door because that's just how John was. Somebody had come trying to find John, somebody who John didn't want to let in. There were outlines of slightly muddy footprints on the floor. Men's shoes, three different sets of footprints, the ones closest to the door a size forty, given the stride length and the slight indentations on the wood the man was six feet, one inch, the indentations on the door implied a ring, Mycroft was six feet one inch, wore a ring, and travelled with two bodyguards, therefore the most likely explanation was that John had refused to let Sherlock's brother in, which meant that Mycroft would have left a note. He wouldn't have left it under the door; that was too usual and would make it too easy to get, he would have out it in the mailbox, which was locked. He opened the mailbox again and found the piece of embossed paper.

_Dear Dr. Watson,_

_Given the year anniversary of my brother's death, I ask you again, not for the first time, to come and meet with me so that I can explain what I need to. You must understand that you are not the only one who has been touched my his death, Mr. Watson. We have all been wounded by him. Ten O'clock tomorrow at my place? I'll send a car for you._

_MC_

Obviously John hadn't taken the offer.

Sherlock still had a key for the door, but he didn't use it. He raised his hand once, and then brought it down again, and then, before he could even think, he brought his hand up and knocked hand and firm on the door.

After his knock split the air, the silence was deafening. He could hear his own beating heart, but that was all he could hear in the dark hallway.

Then there was a slight crash and footsteps echoed from within the flat. He stepped back. He could hear John speaking again.

"If that's you again, Mycroft, I have no intentions of going anywhere with you. And it's five o'clock in the morning, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

The door fell open and Sherlock found himself staring at the face of his friend.

He was thinner and grayer and There were more lines on his face. He looked tired; there were deep circles under his eyes, and his lips were pressed tightly together. _What to say? _Sherlock wondered.

"Hello, John," he said. "It's good to see you again."

John was staring at him like he was a ghost. Sherlock tried to smile, but he couldn't. What had he done wrong? Shouldn't John be happy?

Then there was a blinding pain in his cheek, and a sudden weight on his chest and John fell into his arms, whether to hug or strangle him, Sherlock wasn't sure. He could feel John's tears soaking into his chest. _Why does he cry like that? _And then John pulled away and stood in the doorway, glaring.

"Why did you slap me?" Sherlock asked, rubbing the rapidly emerging red mark on his cheek.

"A year. A year and you said nothing. No calls, no texts, no emails. I thought you were dead!"

"That _was_ the point..."

"Goddamn it, Sherlock! I've woken up every morning thinking that you were lying in a grave in a cemetery! I saw you fall, how to hell did you survive that?"

Sherlock stayed silent. His hands were in his pockets and his eyes were cast downwards. "I'm sorry, John," he said, but he wasn't crying. "I can't say just yet. I have something... Something that I need to do." He tried to step through the doorway, but John blocked him.

"The last time you said that you jumped off the roof of a building."

Sherlock looked John in the eye. His long fingers nervously fiddled with the glassy button on his jacket. He could still feel the crick in his neck from sleeping on that seat. "Look, John, I can't tell you everything now due to... Circumstances. Please let me in and we can discuss this fully at a later time. I need to see a television."

John stepped back and pulled the door farther open, his drawn face cast into a mask of normalcy. Sherlock wanted to apologize, he wanted to make everything right, he wanted everything to go back to the way it used to be, but first there was something that had to be done.


End file.
